A Hundred Gourds 2:1 December 2012
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Claire Everett - UK

5th Instar

nettle rain . . .
the on-off prickle
of whitethroat song

Our last night here and I’m listening to the gentle banter between rain and canvas. You drifted off a while ago – at least, I think you did. I don’t want to move lest I wake you, content as I am to dwell on all that has passed and dream about what is to come. Things are going to change. We both know that. I can’t return to the daily grind, the routines that bind me. These past few weeks I’ve realised I can hear the song long before I feel the shadow.

ink-dark moon . . .
can the poppy bear
the weight of my dream?

Now there are no borders. I flit between our sunlit conversations and the 10 tog cocoon of sleep. You can’t pin me down any more than I can you. Let there be spaces in your togetherness and let the winds of the heavens dance between you. What do I care if the chrome is gleaming if I’ve missed my morning in the hills?

pollen breeze . . .
writing your name
in the dust

You’re bound to ask me where I go to in the rain. I might tell you. I might not. What matters most is when I eventually cross your path in that dappled glade.

my first tattoo . . .


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